


the worst squire in the fucking world

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, as i said on discord, enjoy, extremely fun, this is essentailly, to babysitting as taming of the shrew is to marriage, writing mordred as an obnoxious middle schooler was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: Mordred is Lancelot's squire for less than a week, and it is one of the worst weeks of Lancelot's life.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	the worst squire in the fucking world

“You don’t want to be my squire, kid, you’ll be stuck inside helping me answer letters all fucking summer,” Gawain told him. And it was true, that since the acquisition of Rome the king had more need of him at court, and Gawain wanted him to get actual experience in the field. And Lancelot didn’t take on squires, as a rule- this was a personal favour to his friend. The others were all jealous, he was going to travel with the best knight in the world. 

But he didn’t want to be the squire to the best knight in the world, unless that was his brother. Which in his opinion it was.

So Lancelot was going to be a problem. Luckily, Lancelot was a solvable problem; he didn’t take squires for a reason, namely that he wasn’t good with young people. Or old people. Or people his age. 

So Mordred feigned delight and acted on his best behaviour, for the week in Camelot. Lancelot tried to teach him to fight, but ended up just beating him handily and then apologizing, without teaching him anything except how to stand there and garner bruises. Lancelot tried to teach him how to care for equipment but ended up just doing it himself like he was used to. Lancelot didn’t even try to teach him courtly manners, that would be laughable.

Soon, a report came in about some water troll that had crawled out of a lake a few days ride South and was eating hapless travellers. Generally below Lancelot’s paygrade, but Gawain asked another of his seemingly never-ending favours, and they were outfitted early the next morning, out on what was essentially a dry run of questing, wholly for Mordred’s benefit.

As soon as they were out of sight of Camelot, Mordred put his plan into effect.

“Are you really the best knight in the world?” he asked, invoking a tone of adoring wonder of which he felt none. 

“Uh- maybe,” Lancelot answered, looking back at him as if he had forgotten Mordred was there, which was likely the case.

“My brother says you are. Are you saying he’s lying?”

“What? I- no, no, I just. Well I guess, I guess I am,” he stuttered out, an expression of mild panic on his face. Mordred suppressed a smile. This was going to be so much easier than he had thought.

“But isn’t that bragging? I thought part of chivalry was modesty,” he tried to sound genuinely confused.

“Oh- you just said-” Lancelot gave up, and went for a shot in the dark apology, “I'm sorry if it seems contradictory.”

“No, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm just trying to learn, I'm afraid I don’t understand knighthood like you must. Is being the best knight in the world just a measure of martial skill? What about chivalric manners and honour?” He continued to fire off questions, not allowing Lancelot to answer, “does ownership of land or political sway affect it? What about education, or other skills?”

“Uh, well-”

“My brother,” Mordred began, moving up his horse to be level with the other, quite unmannered, “Is the king of Orkney and Lothian, Norway and Rome, and you don’t even have Benoic anymore. Does that affect it? He speaks eight languages, do you? And what else can you do? Tristan is a wonderful musician, they say his singing is so beautiful it brings people to tears. Can you sing?”

“I. um, no,” Lancelot said miserably, and which question he was attempting wasn’t clear, nor did it matter.

“Is it true that a good knight must have a maiden? You don’t have one, you never wear a favour at tournaments. Why don’t you have one?”

This one was a low blow, and Mordred felt a little guilty about it. But it produced the desired effect. Lancelot mumbled something about how that was enough learning for now, and spurred his horse ahead. Mordred wondered, amused, whether the man was really crying. He hoped so. 

They passed through a village around dusk, and Mordred broke the hours-long silence Lancelot had maintained.

“Are we going to stop here for the night? There’s an inn.”

Lancelot looked around, like he hadn’t even realized they were back in relative civilization, “oh- I usually just camp on the roadside.”

Scrunching his face in distaste, Mordred gave him a look, like it was the most insane thing anyone had ever said. It wasn’t, but Lancelot was highly suggestible.

“Are you sure? When I was travelling with my brothers Gawain always insisted we stay at an inn, because it would be dangerous for me to sleep on the road…” he trailed off, trying to look even younger than his thirteen years.

Muttering something in French that was probably not polite, Lancelot turned his horse around and they rode back into what could barely be called a town, digging miserably into a coin purse. 

He slid a few coins over to the innkeeper reluctantly, not springing for separate rooms, a decision Mordred planned to make him immediately regret.

“Do you not have any money because you gave up Benoic? Why did you do that?”

Lancelot stumbled over something about how it was hard to balance the responsibility of managing it with knighthood, while he did the drudge work of maintaining equipment that was ostensibly Mordred’s job.

“I see. But most knights are landed, aren't they? They seem to manage it. My brother owns half of Europe.”

Lancelot did not respond. He had decided to try that strategy and see how it went.

It went for about half an hour, long enough for Mordred to eat the mediocre food provided by the inn and, thus re-energized, continue his brutal war of attrition. 

“Are you going to sleep in your armour? I heard you sleep in your armour.”

“I- “ maybe sometimes.

“That's weird, I don't know anyone else who does that.”

“I don't-”

“You should take it off,” Mordred said imperiously, “I order you to take it off.”

“My squire can't order me to do things, “ Lancelot resisted, though he wasn't entirely sure now. Mordred said it so confidently, and to a man so used to taking orders and uncomfortable giving them, that he almost assented on principle. But no, sense still held out.

To show the squire who was in charge here, he spent a miserable night trying to sleep in full armour, which was, of course, exactly what Mordred wanted. 

So he started the next morning already losing ground, not having slept a moment, in addition to having skipped the usual mid afternoon nap on the side of the road for obvious reasons- that is, fearing the ridicule of a tween. 

In fact, as he snuck into the kitchens to try and steal as much as he could before they left, Mordred thought it very likely that he could bring the knight to tears before midmorning.

He was right. Beginning with a veiled criticism of the rate of attrition on Lancelot's horses, with a handy comparison to his brother, he verged onto the generally high casualty rate that followed the famous knight, and finally into the origin of the epithet “Mal Fet,” and soon the knight was pulling ahead and saying no further questions. This, Mordred was delighted to learn, was in fact a cover for open weeping, when he pretended his horse had spooked so he could momentarily catch up.

By midafternoon, he was going for twice in one day, but it was becoming slightly more challenging. Lancelot had learned, by now, that every question was a trap and was endeavouring to answer as little and in as few words as possible. Mordred changed tactics, pivoting to ask him about the only things he was actually good at.

Mordred patiently and with a veneer of interest, allowed him to explain jousting for a good half an hour, till all suspicious had been washed from him. If not for the dark circles under his eyes, he looked as confident and cheerful as he had the morning they started out, and it was about to come crashing down.

“I don't understand one thing,” he started finally, and Lancelot asked him what that was, with such an expression of artless credulity it almost seemed too cruel to continue. But he did.

“Why can't you just hold on? When someone is trying to unhorse you, just don't let go. Why doesn't anyone do that?” 

“W-what?” Lancelot looked over at him as if he might be making a joke, but he only looked back, all innocent curiosity. 

“I- you can't just hold on, the force- uh-” his vocabulary to describe physics failed him and he resorted to making vague gestures as if to illustrate his point. 

Mordred looked confused, “why not?” 

“Look,” Lancelot tugged the reins and, once the horse had stopped, turned to face him properly, “the lance pushes you out of the saddle and you get thrown back, you can't just hold on.” 

“But if you just didn't move, then the lance would shatter, and you'd still be mounted.”

“No- you-” he had already lost whatever cool he had, which wasn't very much, frustration evidence in his face. The argument continued for some time, with very little traction, except that Lancelot grew more irritated and upset, and Mordred found it harder and harder not to laugh.

“I think I could beat you at a joust, because I just wouldn't move,” he announced finally. And the hypothesis that he had privately made at the beginning of the conversation- that Lancelot was numbered among those unfortunate people who couldn't get angry without crying- was confirmed. Congratulating himself on the victory, Mordred allowed the subject to be dropped.

About an hour later, it was growing dark and there wasn't any shred of civilization in sight. Mordred feigned nervousness that was, in truth, not completely feigned, about the prospect of sleeping in the wilderness where any manner of magical and mundane beasts could stumble upon them. 

Lancelot was led to consider what Gawain would do to him if he got Mordred eaten by a bear, and agreed to stand watch all night. The worst part was that they both knew he'd be good for it. It had now been two days since he'd had any sleep, but he was the sort of man who would consider stabbing himself to stay awake before neglecting a promise.

Which, Mordred noticed the next morning, he had, unless his hand was suddenly bandaged for some other inscrutable reason. Still, as they readied the horses, the man betrayed no more bad temper than to suggest curtly that Mordred move a bit faster when he was intentionally dawdling. Mordred allowed himself to pretend to take this recrimination very poorly- though he'd never been able to manage to cry on command, he got close- and Lancelot caved immediately, apologizing so profusely as to be akin to self-flagellation.

This wouldn't do. Mordred could see now that this man would take whatever punishment he was given till he dropped from exhaustion, before he became angry enough to shame Mordred by firing him from squireship. A drastic step was needed.

So, as he, in an uncharacteristic show of helpfulness, was carrying Lancelot's shield to the horse, he pulled out a little knife and made a cut on the underside of one strap. Not enough to break immediately, but when under pressure- snap. If he was being honest with himself, he didn't feel good about it, and there was a heavy guilty feeling in his stomach as he walked away. But it was too late now. 

The feeling stayed with him as they started off that morning, and for a few hours he allowed them to ride in silence. What Lancelot thought of this reprieve wasn't clear, though at that point he may have been too tired to notice. Around late morning, however, he had the presence of mind to signal for a halt. 

They were apparently approaching their destination, which, with all the rest of it, Mordred had almost forgotten about. 

“Apparently, it attacks travellers and retreats to the lake it lives in whenever they mount resistance,” Lancelot said, trying to recall any specific details from when they had left Camelot what felt like ten years ago.

“Maybe it's your mom.”

He ignored that.

“Are we just gonna sit here and wait for it to show up?” Mordred asked, irritated that the mom comment had failed to land. That was when the screaming started.

“I guess so,” he remarked to himself as he made to follow Lancelot in the direction of the disruption. 

They did not find the person who had been screaming. They did find a loose bloody pile of viscera and a… thing. The thing was greenish greyish blackish, covered in slime and seaweed, with a bloody mouth full of several ringed rows of teeth like rusty nails sticking out of a wooden board, and it had an unsettling and vaguely equine shape.

“Oh, fuck,” Lancelot said aloud in surprise, then winced at his mistake. But if it heard, the creature did not care, because it didn't so much as pause from its gruesome task.

“That's not a troll!” Mordred whispered urgently, gone quite pale. Lancelot shook his head.

In a low tone, he said back, “This is… not good. That would be a kelpie.”

“Like Gringolet?”

“No, not like Gringolet.”

“What's the difference?” Mordred asked, still hushed as they watched it continue to feed.

“One of them is directed only by the whims of a bloodthirsty Scottish monster, and the other one is this one,” Lancelot answered, which was worrying, because if he was making jokes the sleep-deprivation had much more of an effect than previously thought.

“You should leave jokes to Dinadan.”

It was then that it looked up and saw them.

Lancelot made the split second decision that he was more afraid of the Orkneys than the kelpie, and ordered Mordred to turn around and ride the opposite direction till he couldn't see them anymore. 

He pretended to do so, but stopped when he was just a ways off, to watch the fight, still more curious than concerned. 

It started off well enough. Even sleep deprived, he was the best knight, or at least one of them, as Mordred peevishly noted at every opportunity. The key to a kelpie was not to touch it, for one's flesh would stick to it, and the beast would drag them into the water and drown them. Lancelot managed to keep his distance, using his shield liberally and striking out with a sword, landing several small gashes that bled brackish ichor. He moved by inches,circling around till he was blocking off the path to the south, where the lake was, blocking an escape.

Sidestepping a kick, and deflecting the razor filled mouth a bash of the shield, he struck out at its side, opening it's side for a good foot, more of the black mess that made up its insides spilling out onto the bloody ground. 

It was at that moment that the strap on the shield gave out. 

Mordred swore aloud, with an awful sick feeling as he watched it happen. To his credit, Lancelot only spared half a moment to stare in surprise before taking a quick step back, quickly re-assessing, ripping off the remaining straps that no longer did any good but to slow him down. But in his rush to do so, one gauntlet slipped off with them. This was not, by any metric, good. 

The kelpie was smart- it is said they were as smart as people- and knew this meant it had him. Now the goal was clear- one touch of bare hand against the beast's flesh and it could drag him into the water and drown him, heal in its lake and be back to eating travellers by this time next week. Nevermind that Lancelot of all people didn't drown so easily- the kelpie didn't know that. 

“The kelpie,” Mordred repeated aloud, “doesn't know that.”

No one could hear him but that didn't matter. A plan was a plan. He abandoned his horse, which wouldn't move forward anyway, and ran as fast as he could along the road towards the conflict, which had rapidly turned to the creature's favour. 

No longer able to use his shield to keep distance, and with one hand now a weak point, he had to make up for it in speed. Which was hindered by the fact that he had not slept for almost 72 hours. Whose bright idea was that, Mordred reflected bitterly, as he watched Lancelot dodge a bite that clamped down a hair from his throat. 

Mordred was only a dozen paces away now, skidding to a stop and not taking the time to catch his breath. The kelpie was known to take a human form and coerce travellers, which meant it could speak, which meant it could understand. But it probably didn't speak French. 

“Play dead!” he said, hoping Lancelot would know what he meant. It was only then that the knight noticed him, the second of horror enough for the beast to get past his defenses, and he wasn't quick enough with the sword to stop its teeth clamping down on his shoulder, did not have the presence of mind to stop himself, in that split second, from pushing back against it's chest to stop the teeth from finding his throat and ending the fight for real.

Oh fuck. Oh no. He had made things so much worse. Lancelot now either had to cut off his hand or a chunk of the creature to break free, and he had time to do neither of those things, all his focus on keeping its snapping jaws from opening a carotid artery. 

Mordred's plan _had_ been to get Lancelot stuck to it, but like this he'd have his throat torn open before then even reached the lake. 

So, trying desperately not to think about the watery grave that failure led to- _of all things why did it have to be that-!_ Mordred drew the knife he wore at his belt. 

It worked, and with a wretched hiss like a teapot possessed by Satan coming to a boil, it raised its head to see what had just stabbed it, giving Lancelot just enough time to slash a chunk off the thing's chest, releasing his, now covered in pitch like slime and flesh, bare hand. 

Torn between two enemies, it paused, long enough for Mordred to try again to explain. Still in French, which he was admittedly not very good at, he stumbled over the plan.

“Du Loc, right? Let it take you! Its guard will be down,” Mordred spat out breathlessly, taking several shaky steps back, his knife still stuck to the hilt in the creature's side. Lancelot hesitated, and Mordred couldn't blame him. He had spent the last two days actively sabotaging him, and being as cruel as he could possibly be for no evident reason.

“Please?”

It was all he could say before the creature decided that the smaller and now unarmed target was more appealing, and it lunged forward. 

Mordred was only saved from having his flesh feasted upon by a demonic water horse by Lancelot making the quick and objectively stupid decision to trust the thirteen-year-old that had spent the last three days making his life hell.

Jumping on top of the creature's back and stabbing a sword into its side to avoid falling off had not been part of Mordred's plan, but he supposed that it was Lancelot's prerogative to do so. 

As predicted, it took this as a confusing victory and took off South to its watery lair, Mordred running behind, wondering if he would ever catch his breath. 

The surface of the lake was placid when he arrived, far behind, only a swirl of dark blood on the water, a clue that the two had entered it.

He stopped a good distance away from the shore, for practical and impractical reasons, and sat down to wait and see if his gamble had paid off, and try not to cry.

After a terrifyingly long wait, there was the sound of splashing and swearing as Lancelot threw himself on the shore. He was soaking wet, covered in red and black blood, and half his armour was gone or irreparably damaged. After a few moments of gasping breaths, he made a vague hand gesture that Mordred assumed was supposed to mean success. 

Perhaps sensing the boy's reluctance to go any nearer to the water, Lancelot forced himself to his feet and they stumbled back to the road, where he announced he was going no farther, and they would set up camp here. Mordred found the horses and lit a fire, while Lancelot struggled out of what was left of his armour, still covered in open wounds.

“Hey, Mordred?” Lancelot said, wincing as he examined his bleeding…. everything.

“What?” 

“When we get back, I'm finding someone else you can squire for.”

“Thank fuck,” Mordred said, and started putting water on to boil, to clean the wounds.

Lancelot stared at him for a few seconds, sort of dazed, and Mordred wondered guiltily how much blood he had lost. Finally, it clicked.

“You were being awful on purpose,” He accused, without anything actually resembling anger.

“Sorry. I just wanted to be my brother’s squire,” he admitted reluctantly, “I really didn’t mean for, you know.”

“Oh, 'sfine, happens all the time,” Lancelot said, taking the proffered hot water and cloth and beginning to clean the long cuts and bites.

“Sorry,” he tried again, and gave up when Lancelot continued to not understand.

“It's really not any big deal. I'd much rather be almost eaten by a kelpie than suffer whatever your brother would think up for me if you were the one who got hurt,” Lancelot claimed, and that was that.

He certainly acted like the injuries were nothing outside the norm, and they made it back in only two days, taking no consideration for injuries. Mordred didn’t protest when they camped on the roadside. 

When they reached Camelot, they barely stopped at the stables to leave the horses before Lancelot marched them both into Gawain’s rooms like he was returning a defective product.

“I'm guessing it went poorly,” Gawain said, surveying Lancelot’s exciting new scars and Mordred’s sheepish expression.

“Yeah, I believe this belongs to you,” Lancelot gestured at Mordred who was already pushing past him to join his older brother. Gawain chuckled and promised to “make it up to him” before banishing the man from his room.

“So that’s where all the favours come from?” Mordred asked, not knowing himself exactly what it meant.

“Hush. What did you do, you little menace?” Gawain asked, more amused curiosity than anger.

“Nothing,” Mordred insisted.

“Nothing.”

He shifted uncomfortably, “well, I did tell you I didn’t want to be his squire, I wanted to be your squire, and you didn’t listen.”

A masterstroke, Gawain was now too pleased by his admittance to even care what he had done.

“How about Sir-”

“No.”

Gawain rolled his eyes as if he didn’t consider this one of the top ten proudest moments of his life.

“Fine, fine, if you’re sure you won’t be bored.”

Mordred promised he wouldn't be, and went to leave, but Gawain stopped him.

“I think the problem is that you have a great deal of intelligence and no opportunity to use it. Thus the systematic psychological torture. You should be put to work in that capacity as well, in a position that involves problem-solving and requires someone as smart as you are,” Gawain said thoughtfully, his brother glowing at this praise.

“I'm going to talk to Kay about letting you take on administrative duties. Do you think you can handle that responsibility,” Gawain asked, knowing, of course, that no one his brother's age would ever answer no to that question.

“I can handle it! You’re not gonna regret this,” He promised, already dashing out the room to do whatever victorious thirteen-year-olds do. Gawain let him go, wondering how long it would be before he realized he had just been, for all intents and purposes, made an accountant.

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up like 2000 words longer than anticipated, but enjoy


End file.
